Five Times Billy Let Go
by Lena7142
Summary: There's a time to let go, and there's a time to hold on tight.


**Title:** Five Times Billy Let Go (And One Time He Held On)

**Author:** Lena7142

**Characters:** Billy, team

**Genre:** Bit of angst, bit of h/c, bit of fluff

**A/n:** Written for and beta'd by my fanfic soulmate, Faye Dartmouth

* * *

Five Times Billy Let Go

* * *

1.

They put him on the red-eye from Heathrow to Baltimore-Washington International. When they give him the itinerary for his expulsion from British soil, he consoles himself with the thought of seeing one last British sunset. So naturally, it's raining cats and dogs when he reaches the airport.

Fate refuses to let Billy Collins catch a break.

Sitting on the plane after they board, he watches the rain run in rivulets down the window and stream across the shining tarmac. The sky has gone from gray to deep blue and is nearly indigo. By the time they take off, he figures it will be all but black, and Billy will be launched out into the darkness and the terrifying unknown of an uncertain and friendless future.

It's not a prospect he relishes.

So he holds on. He holds on to the fact that the plane is still on English soil. When the turbines lift them free from the ground, he holds on to the sight of his country, nose all but pressed against the glass like an anxious child. He watches until the city is nothing but a tiny cluster of lights, until he has to strain to see.

He doesn't want to let home go. His chest tightens and he feels his breathing quicken. The reality of it, the finality, the _terror_ begins to set in. This is more terrifying than any op, than any life-or-death scenario he's been placed in.

But a plane is a poor place to have a nervous breakdown, his inner pragmatist points out; his panic will do nothing. He'll just end up making a fool of himself, upsetting the flight attendants and spending the next seven hours earning disapproving, pitying, and alarmed looks from his fellow passengers. The choices that led him here can't be unmade, and even if he wanted to go back on the offer that at least allowed him to leave with his life, freedom, and what few shreds of dignity he had left, it's no longer an option.

So when the plane breaches a cloud bank and those final glimmering traces of home are swallowed by darkness, Billy has no choice but to let them go. He takes a steadying breath through his nose, and then another. Eventually he falls asleep with his head against the window, legs scrunched up in the narrow footwell, and dreams fitfully of lights at the ends of dark tunnels.

* * *

2.

The pain is excruciating.

He's not sure how he got thrown to the ground so quickly, or how he managed to lose the upper hand so fast. He should have had the upper hand; but apparently, Billy's judgement is as bad as his luck. And now it feels like his arm is about to be broken, and he can't even breathe through the strain of it.

The only thing keeping him from having his arm shattered or ripped out of its socket is that he has his opponent in a wrestling hold; it isn't a strong position, granted, but the mess of interlocked limbs keeping Billy flat on his back on the ground are also the only thing keeping him in the fight.

And it's slipping.

His hands are slick with sweat, and the mounting pressure his attacker is putting on his shoulder has made Billy's whole right arm start to go tingly. He doesn't think he can keep this up. He doesn't have any other options.

The fight is over, really. He's just postponing the inevitable by trying to hold on.

Sweat drips into his eyes. His lungs burn with the need for air. His arms throb, and finally, with a cry of pain and frustration, Billy lets go. He breaks the hold and within seconds his arm is twisted around with a blinding flash of pain and he's screaming _"I'm out! I'm out!"_, his voice cracking in frantic desperation.

Then, the pressure relents and Billy is suddenly no longer pinned. He lies on his back, gasping for air, then looks suspiciously at the hand that's offered to him. Nervously, he takes it, allowing himself to be hauled up off the mat and to his feet with a wince.

"Fifty-two seconds," Michael remarks with a smirk. "Not bad."

"It's not bad because it was _terrible," _Casey amends, wiping his hands off on a towel even though he hardly looks like he broke a sweat.

Billy grimaces, feeling sheepish. "Aye, well. I reckon that's the last time I underestimate your fighting prowess, Malick."

"It had better be, rookie," Casey replies, heading for the locker room, Michael a pace behind.

"Hey, chin up, kid," Carson says as he follows, clapping Billy on the shoulder with a sympathetic grin. "Most guys who go up against Malick don't live to talk about it. And hey, if you hadn't let go of that hold, you might've lasted a full minute!"

Grimacing, Billy wonders if letting go too soon is getting to be a pattern for him. But rather than dwelling on it, he wipes the sweat from his face and follows his team toward the showers...

* * *

3.

His hands aren't sweaty this time; if anything, they feel brittle and almost numb from the cold as the harsh winter wind whips across the bridge, slicing to the bone.

But Billy's grip is slipping nonetheless.

Leave it to the new guy to cock up the mission. It had been going well; Michael and Casey had borrowed a skiff to go after Moreau's tanker before it left the river and entered the bay. Billy and Carson had gone after Moreau's backers, surveilling and tracking them from a distance. But then their marks had gone on the move, and when Billy and Carson tried to follow, they'd been made. Carson insisted they not lose them, and Billy had floored the gas.

They'd been hot on their heels. Too hot. When one of the men in the black SUV rolled down the window and opened fire, Billy heard one of their tires explode and couldn't brake enough to stop them as they skidded out, crashing into the other car as they tried to make it across one of the bridges that traversed the river.

The SUV rolled over twice, crashing into the bridge's guard rail, then came to a stand-still, the hood suspended over the edge. Billy held his breath for a few seconds, hands white-knuckled around the wheel as he stared at the other vehicle over their own car's crumpled and ruined hood. "Think they survived?"

"If they did, I don't think they're gonna be in a state to give us any trouble," Carson stated, climbing out of the door and touching his earwig. "Hey, Michael, checking in-"

Checking to make sure he still had his gun, Billy followed, wrestling his crushed door open.

He circled toward the edge of the bridge, toward the front of the vehicle. The driver was plainly dead, as was the man in the passenger seat. The back seat, however, was empty.

_There were three of them._

Billy looked up in time to see Carson crumple to the ground. His hand on his gun, he cried out his teammate's name in a warning mere seconds too late, bringing his pistol to bear just at the remaining man from the crash did the same.

Two gunshots rang out.

The man fell.

And as the world tilted violently and Billy threw his arms out in an attempt to reclaim a sense of balance that he'd already lost, he realized he must've been hit, the force knocking him back.

Back over the edge.

He yelped, flailing, and as his fingers brushed something solid he grabbed hold and clung to it with all his might. His body dropped and for a second, he thought his arm might tear out of its socket -

- But Billy held on. Dangling over the dark and icy waters, he held on.

For now.

"_Collins?"_ Michael's voice crackled over the earwig.

Billy swallowed, trying to slow his breathing enough to speak. "Aye?"

"_Status? Where's Carson?"_

Billy swallowed. "Carson's down. He's on the Avaligne bridge. Moreau's backers are neutralized."

He heard Michael curse. _"How bad?"_

"I don't know," Billy answered, licking his lips, trying to adjust his perilous grip. "Michael?"

"_Yeah?"_

"I might be hanging off the edge of the bridge."

"_You... what?"_

Billy repeats himself, voice catching as his hands start to cramp. "If you could get here soon..."

"_We're coming,"_ Michael reassures him. _"Just hold on."_

And Billy does. But he can't for long. His hands are numb and he can feel blood running down his leg from where the bullet must've caught him in the hip. It hurts, but right now he feels like his whole body is on fire from trying to hold himself up, and it's difficult to differentiate one pain from another.

He just needs to hold on.

Hold on...

"_Billy?"_

"Yeah?" Billy croaks, and he can't feel his fingers or toes anymore.

"_Let go."_

"What?" he squawks. He can't have heard right.

_"We're here, Billy, but you need to let go," _Michael repeats.

Billy shakes his head. "No. Not happening," he insists, though his failing grip says otherwise.

He needs to hold on-

"_You need to let go!"_ Michael repeats. _"Trust me!"_

And God help him, Billy does.

Billy lets go.

He hits the water and it's an icy shock that drives out what little air he has in his lungs. The frozen darkness closes all around him, and for a horrible moment, he thinks, _this is it._ This is how it all ends, and he's once more plunged into the dark.

But then strong hands are grabbing him, pulling him, and as his head breaks the surface, he gasps for air. He's shaking hard as Michael and Casey haul him into the skiff, and Casey wraps a tarp around his shoulders.

"Told you to let go," Michael says with a grin that's both cocky and relieved.

Billy glowers at him, though the expression is diluted from the cold and the pain. "Your rescues 'r rubbish," he slurs in response.

But it's a rescue nonetheless, and as Casey brings the little boat up to the dock so they can go find Carson and rescue him too, Billy reflects that letting go actually worked out this time around.

* * *

4.

They sit in the car long after they reach their destination.

Time has been acting funny lately, Billy thinks. The doctors said it was from his concussion, and he idly touches the bandage around his head that covers the gash where a piece of flying debris caught him. Debris from the explosion...

Time has been acting funny lately, and maybe it's from the blow to the head, but Billy thinks it might be because there's a Carson Simms-shaped hole in the world; a vacuum; a black hole that sucks and destroys and breaks the laws of physics around it. It's a melodramatic notion, but Billy's always been the melodramatic member of the team. Or had been.

Ever since Carson died three days ago, he's only felt numb.

"We're here," Michael finally says, and Billy has no idea how long they've been sitting in silence.

"Yeah," he answers hoarsely, and he knows he should get up and go. He should go into his motel and shower and get a good night's sleep, because he hasn't slept for more than forty minutes at a time since North Africa. But every time he closes his eyes, he can see the incandescent explosion as it tears the warehouse apart...

He knows he should get up and go, but he keeps sitting there. Michael kills the engine instead of letting it idle, and they sit there in the parking lot as abstract seconds pass by.

"They're doing a memorial tomorrow," Michael finally says, voice quiet and a little strained. "Just within the agency. Higgins... asked if any of us wanted to say something." He shifts in the driver's seat. "Did you want to read anything?"

Billy thinks about it. He has all his stupid poems and his tattered books and his quotes, but what are quotes really other than stolen words?

They're all just words. And they feel empty in his mouth.

"Not really," he answers after a minute. Michael doesn't press the issue.

Across the street, a neon bar sign flickers to life. A dog barks somewhere, and in the distance, there's a wailing siren. They sit in the car.

And finally, Michael says it:

"Are you okay?"

Billy's first instinct is to lie. That's always been Billy's first instinct. He'll fill the world with stolen words and glib smiles and he'll fake it all without a second thought. He's about to say that yes, he's fine, but it catches in his throat and burns there. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then feels his shoulders shudder. "No," he hears himself say.

And then it all comes crumbling down. And Billy lets go.

It's seconds or minutes or maybe half an hour that passes; he's not sure. But he's crying, hard, for the first time since he watched his best mate die. His eyes sting and the tears drip down his face and off the tip of his nose, the sobs wracking his chest until it hurts to breathe and he's left gasping raggedly, shaking with it.

Carson's dead, and Billy is not okay.

To his surprise, there's a slight pressure on his shoulder. He starts to pull away, then realizes it's a hand, lightly squeezing, reassuring. He looks over, and Michael's eyes are red and bright as he awkwardly pulls his hand back.

"Yeah... me neither," he says, voice rough as he forces a weak smile.

Billy snuffles and nods, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve.

"Think you will be, though?" Michael says.

Billy pauses, and for a minute he just breathes, his inhalations growing less ragged as the seconds drag. "I don't know," he says finally. Then he swallows. "Eventually, yeah, I reckon."

Michael nods.

They sit in the car until dawn.

* * *

5.

They're drunk.

The mission wrapped up two days early; they hadn't meant to, but an asset spooked and things got moved ahead of schedule, and when all was said and done, they had two days left before their return flight was scheduled.

"We've already booked the hotel," Michael said with a shrug. "Might as well enjoy Croatia for a bit."

The hotel wasn't all that great, but the sight-seeing was good, and for all that the accommodations left something to be desired, the location proved fortuitous, as Billy and Rick discovered. As it turned out, the little shop across the street wasn't a pharmacist as they'd initially assumed.

It was a liquor store.

They proceeded to blow most of their remaining mission budget on festivities for an "Agents' Night In" as Michael jokingly calls it, ordering up some sort of local takeout and stocking up on bottles whose labels they can't read.

By 9 o'clock, they're working up a buzz. By 11, they're good and tipsy. And at quarter past midnight, they're animatedly telling stories and laughing so loud the neighbors hammer on the wall in frustration. Even Casey's cheeks are rosy as he recounts the time he travelled eight miles hanging on to the underbelly of a supply truck.

"What's your happiest memory?" Rick says to no one in particular after Casey's story is wrapped up and Billy's cracked open a bottle of something that may or may not be grappa.

Casey raises an eyebrow. "Are we drunk enough for it to be personal sharing time?"

"We already heard about the mission where Billy wore a dress and seduced the agricultural minister," Michael smirks. "I think we're well into personal sharing time."

"You _like_ sharing!" Rick insists, pointing a wavering finger at Casey. "Admit it! That was the highlight of the North Korea mission!"

"I think the highlight of the North Korea mission was actually getting out of North Korea," Billy murmurs, guzzling whatever is in the bottle. He feels warm, his senses pleasantly fuzzy, and if he's destined to have a headache in the morning, well, that's future-Billy's problem.

"Marrying Fay," Michael says, answering abruptly to their joint surprise. "I mean, obviously it didn't work out, but.." he pauses, stifling a hiccup, and smiles wistfully. "Damn. You should've seen her in that white sundress walking through the jardins des Tuileries."

"I think I may have just thrown up in my mouth a bit," Casey replies.

"That's probably the Palinka," Billy offers. "It's a mite off, I think."

"What about you, Casey?" Rick asks.

Casey seems reflective for a few moments, swirling the contents of his glass and picking at a plate of food he hasn't taken a bite of in over an hour. "Marrakech in 1999. I can't give you any more details without violating several international secrecy agreements. But let's just say I cherish the scars."

"And you, Martinez?" Michael asks.

"My middle school graduation," Rick answers after a moment.

Everyone bursts into sniggers.

"You're telling me it's all been downhill since you were thirteen?" Casey asks skeptically.

Rick flushes red. "No! I mean... it's the last time I remember my dad telling me he was proud of me. Before he died."

The room goes silent and faces already rosy with wine turn a darker shade of red. "That's... that's a good memory," Michael says with a nod.

Rick scuffs a shoe on the carpet. "Yeah, well... maybe not as exciting as Marrakech, but it's what I've got. Um. What about you Billy?"

Billy flinches slightly. "Oh, I don't know. Pick any successful mission and that'll work for me."

"That's a crap answer and you know it!" Michael says, tossing an empty can at Billy's head and missing him by a mile.

Casey snorts. "This is the guy who had to have his integrity threatened and be bribed with chocolate before he'd so much as divulge his ex-girlfriend's name."

"What can I say? I keep my best cards close to the chest," Billy says.

"You mean you never let go of your stupid walls," Casey accuses, eyes narrowed. "You know, of all the inhibitions _not_ to let go of when you're drunk..."

"And people call _me_ paranoid," Michael mumbles into his glass.

"Aw, come on, Billy," Martinez pleads, eyes wide and hurt. "You can let go for a little around us, right?"

Billy swallows. And it's true; he doesn't really let go. Not when it comes to the personal stuff. Not often.

But the wine is coursing warm and gentle in his veins, and he's in the company of friends, basking in the afterglow of success. And if there was ever a safer place to let go...

"There's a mountain in Scotland, called Ben Nevis, over Fort William. Tallest mountain we've got, and right difficult to climb. My mate and I went out one summer during Uni and hauled ourselves all the way up to the peak, where you could see all across the lochs," he explains, lowering the bottle. "It was cold and we were sore and aching and hungry, but standing at what felt like the top of the world with the most beautiful view of... home..." he swallows hard, assuring himself it's just a hiccup catching in his throat. "The rush was like nothing else. The adrenaline, the accomplishment, the beauty... there was something sublime about it I cannae forget. Of course," he adds, "that might've been from the thinning oxygen, mind you. But it's a happy memory nonetheless."

There's a moment of contentment as they all picture the scene.

Then Casey tosses Billy a can of the local microbrew, which Billy nearly fumbles but manages to catch. "Thanks for sharing," the older operative says with a thin smile.

"What, no chocolate?" Billy asks, grinning back.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Michael says, slumping deeper into the sofa.

Cracking open the tab on a beer he probably doesn't need, but will drink anyway to future-Billy's great chagrin, Billy's inclined to agree.

* * *

_And one time he held on..._

* * *

"Oh my God-"

"Billy!"

"Collins, can you hear me?"

Voices wash over him like waves in the approaching tide, but Billy feels like he's being sucked under by the current. The world around him is swirling, darkening, and he feels like he's floating for a moment.

Then the pain hits, and it feels less like floating and more like he's on fire.

He tries to cry out, but he only manages a sort of pitiful mewling noise that ends in a whimper. He blinks, and he's not sure if his eyes were open or shut before, but his senses have gone into overdrive now, and it's overwhelming - light and noise and the stink of blood and gunpowder and the pervasive and inescapable _pain._

"Stay with us," Michael coaxes, and he pushes down on Billy's abdomen.

Billy screams.

He tries to pull away, tries to buck Michael off of him, because it feels like his teammate is jabbing Billy's insides with a red hot poker even as he begs him to stop, begs him to relent-

"I have to stop the bleeding, Billy," Michael tries to explain, then swears. "Malick, can you hold him steady?"

Strong hands pin him to the ground, even as his struggles grow feebler. He can smell the blood, and his stomach rolls. He dares to look down, and immediately regrets it; everything is awash in a sea of crimson, reeking of copper. He thinks he's going to pass out, almost wishes for it, but then the renewed pressure from Michael's hands brings him mercilessly back.

"Martinez, how far out is that bus?"

"Is he-? Oh god-"

"Collins? Eyes front!"

Billy tries to keep his eyes open, but his vision is blurring. He's not sure if it's from blood loss or tears, because he's pretty sure he's crying right now. He's pretty sure he's dying too.

"M... sorry..." he mumbles, trying to talk around the tightness in his chest. "Should've... ducked..."

Casey squeezes his shoulders. "We'll work on your reflex training when we get back."

Billy chuckles, grimacing at the fresh agony in his gut. It's funny, because Casey's talking like Billy's coming back from this, and Casey's supposed to be a realist.

It's funny. Only, not really.

Mostly it's just painful.

And Billy feels himself twist and twitch against the pain, his body shuddering convulsively as it struggles not to shut down. Not to let go.

It's a fight against the inevitable, if all the blood is any indicator. Billy's been launched into the darkness before and he's fallen into it and he's sat in it for hours, and this time he feels himself being dragged into it, with no promise of return. The edges of his vision go dim and he starts to sink back.

"Billy!"

Someone shakes him, jarring him, and he whimpers.

"Stay with me, Billy," Michael urges, voice low and intense. "Please."

"Can't," Billy gasps raggedly. "So... sorry..."

"You _can,"_ Casey says sternly. "Ambulance is on it's way, so _hold on, dammit."_

And Billy wants to. He wants to hold on and he wants to live and he wants to be a part of the ODS and not a star on the wall, but he can feel his heart staggering in his chest and the siren call of the dark-

"Don't let go," Michael says quietly. "Don't you dare let go."

It's tempting.

It'd be easy.

He'd only have to close his eyes and let go. And Billy's grown pretty good at letting go over the years. Letting go has saved him a lot of grief; a lot of pain.

Only...

Only some things are worth hanging on to.

Grinding his teeth together, he nods, painfully, and squeezes Michael's wrist. "A'right," he whispers brokenly.

And as the wailing sirens approach and the fire burns through him and the darkness calls, Billy doesn't let go.

Not this time.


End file.
